No man is an Island. 1

Well. I would love to regurgitate the thoughts that have been going through my head for the last two hours or so. Alas those thoughts have sailed away on a rudderless boat that drifted away from the shore in a mild violent storm, she was a small boat with a small cabin that contained a man called Jack. A raft with  made out of scraps of abanded but good wood, from old wardrobes and hollow oak trees,  from a much simpler soon to be forgotten past. 

The sail of the raft is broken and her dissolved anchor that was made out of free trade Sugar cubes. It is made out of sturdy stuff though. And I live in hope that the night-daydream will return  and become  temporally stranded a seemingly endless dune beach under a blanket of galaxies dressed as stars with names I struggle to recall. The starry starry night in Cornwall, the only such night sky I have ever witnessed once nearer years ago than twenty years ago with one of my two brothers, my lovely but hermit-like brother who left me to die  in a health & safety-defying refrigerator nearer 40 years ago than 30. I still dream about going back to wherever that sky existed in Cornwall with a wife, a star struck mutt.. children. No I shouldn’t torture myself too much. 
The boat will return one day and hopefully it will be when I have writing materials or a recording device readily to hand. 
I imagined writing about an fictional dream. Technically I was at work, daydreaming about writing about an imaginary dream  a fictional version of myself had just had. 
He finds himself in a quite spacious broom cupboard,  well more spacious than I imagined such a broom cupboard would be. A BBC broom cupboard….  
‘I am on Desert Island Discs. I am this weeks stowaway. What is going on?…’
To fill the gaps here I am going to listen to two old episodes… The guests being Malcolm Bradbury and the other guest Malcolm Muggeridge.
And, eventually, I will create a fictional interview.


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